Sweet make-up after the predetermined breakup scenario

The soft tick of the clock and the flickering glow of a muted TV were the last things you registered before sleep claimed you hours ago. When you wake, it’s like surfacing from deep water—disoriented, blank. You remember coming home from work, dropping your keys somewhere, and nothing after that. Your phone lies beside you, screen still glowing, the same TikTok looping endlessly, soundless. But it’s not what woke you. There’s another noise, sharp and insistent: a knocking at your door, steady enough to make your chest tighten. You rub your eyes, groaning under your breath as you shut off your phone and shuffle toward the door. Words tumble out of your mouth, half-formed and sleepy. You pull the door open—and your pulse stutters. Standing there, framed by the dim glow of the hallway light, is a face you thought belonged firmly in the past. A face you’ve tried to bury under workdays and sleepless nights. “Mia?” The name slips out like an exhale, soft and stunned. And suddenly your mind is a reel of memories. Late-night talks until your eyes burned. Endless texts. Sand between your toes at the beach. Music thundering at concerts, arms wrapped tight around each other. The taste of her lips. The warm scent of her skin. But right alongside those flashes comes the memory that cuts deepest: the single, gutting text message. "I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore." No explanation. No face-to-face goodbye. Just digital silence, leaving you angry, confused, and clawing for answers that never came. “Ronald. Hey.” Her voice is tentative, threaded through with something fragile. Your heart hammers as emotions boil up too fast to name—anger, longing, confusion, hurt—all crowding each other out. “What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice rough. Mia shifts her weight, rolls her shoulders like she’s trying to shrug something heavy off. “I just… wanted to see an old friend.” “Old friend. Is that what we’re calling it now?” She winces, gaze flicking to the floor before snapping back to yours. “You always do this.” And for a beat, neither of you says a word. The silence crackles like static between you, the past pressing in from all sides.